The Fortune Teller
by mst3kaddict
Summary: Sherlock is drawn to a mysterious fortune teller, with dire circumstances. Slight Sherene fluff, but extremely slight. Post-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

Here's Chapter One! Please, input! :) (I don't own any characters, but the idea is mine completely!)

Our lodgings at 221B had been relatively quiet as of late. Sherlock had been entertaining himself by desperate measures again, and I wanted a case to turn up to distract his attentions once more. One morning, after a particularly rowdy evening during which I confiscated his recreational habits, a moody and headached Sherlock came down for breakfast late.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty." I turned a newspaper page. After hearing a groan in reply, I continued, "Found something you might like to—"

"No, John. The cases you choose are dull and uninteresting. If you wish to occupy my time positively, scare up a good murder." He grabbed the fresh mug of tea originally for my drinking purposes and sullenly flopped onto the couch.

"Sherlock, I can't just—" I sighed, realizing the futility of my situation. "You have to be patient."

"No!" came the loud reply. "I'm so bored!" His fist smacked the wall, which sent our seemingly ever-present landlady skittering up the stairs.

"What are you two bloody boys up to—" Mrs. Hudson exploded shrilly, and upon a single wave of Sherlock's hand, she angrily turned on her heel and stalked away.

The minutes passed. "Come on, John," Sherlock called from above. I started and glanced at the clock. A whole half-hour had passed beneath my nose, and he stood in front of me, ready to go out.

"Where are we going?" I asked, standing up and staggering to the coat hooks.

"For a walk. Since you have hidden my entertainment, I shall have to find another source of diversion." He smirked blandly, turning up his collar, which seemed to augment his cheekbones.

I blew out slowly from my mouth. "Let's go." I tugged on my jumper and joined him in jogging down the stairs. The door to 221B closed gently behind us.

"Do you know what you have to do?"

The Woman nodded affirmative.

"Get me Sherlock Holmes."  
_

As we walked, I observed many familiar sights and sounds, but Sherlock seemed unfettered by such distractions. We passed by a board filled with pasted advertisements, which he insisted we stop at. "Hm." His eye was attracted to a bright yellow advert with the large red letters of:

FORTUNES

BY MADAME LACEY

Underneath was an address.

"Don't, Sherlock, that's tacky," I objected to no avail. The advert was stored in his lengthy coat, and disappeared quickly. As we walked away, I criticized, "You don't seriously believe—"

"John. I don't believe. But in all my experiences, I have found it is useful to keep an open mind. I am currently bored to the extent of going to a fortune teller, because my unintelligent flatmate decided to deprive me of proper diversions!" Sherlock snapped.

"Ah. So you think she'll tell you where I've put them?"

His voice lowered considerably. "Also, a client has come to me in complete confidence. She believes that a certain fortune teller"—here he pulled the glaring advert out and waved it in my confused face—"has been laundering money and is connected to the recent bank robberies."

"Oh." He replaced the advert in his deep pocket and continued walking. I sheepishly trailed behind.


	2. Chapter 2

The place was full of smoke and overly ornate decorations. The general feel of the place was akin to one of the old opium dens. Sherlock breathed in deeply, thoroughly enjoying the molasses-thick tobacco atmosphere. We had been ordered to sit down in old rickety wooden chairs to await "Madame Lacey's" entrance. Elephants and Hindu-associated souvenirs adorned the walls.

"Oh, Sherlock," I coughed, "this is so cliché."

"Shut up, John," he closed his eyes and inhaled in ecstasy.

A large woman draped in an emerald green and golden sari appeared in the doorway, smoking an old thirties American-style Hollywood cigarette. Her eyelids fluttered demurely. "You must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she enunciated slackly, in an unrecognizable accent. "Come this way." One hand fluttered behind her lazily.

The familiar look of intrigue gleamed in his eyes. He got up and trailed behind her intimidating figure, with me close behind.

The next room was rather simple in stark contrast to the foyer. It was painted all black, furnished only with three chairs around a small table holding only a crystal ball. I scoffed. "Sit," Madame Lacey gestured to the chairs. We obeyed unquestionably.

"You…are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a detective. You are John Watson, a doctor. You live at 221B Baker Street." She grinned.

"And you are a smoker, but you don't generally smoke these fancy cigarettes. Those are for show. You also stayed up late last night, because you were setting us up with that false 'client'. You have some money, but you put a lot aside. Your natural hair color is not blonde, and you are using a fake accent. So, you're hiding? From what? Oh, ooh. Obvious."

Madame Lacey's jaw dropped. "I should have remembered."


	3. Chapter 3

In a few seconds, her disguise disappeared, revealing a familiar face.

It was my jaw's turn to drop. "I-Irene Adler‽ You died!"

"No. I did not, obviously. And Sherlock, you'll be interested to hear that I heard of your fantastic death scene. Dramatic. An ending with a flourish." Irene removed the stuffing from her outfit, slimming her form considerably. She continued to puff at the cigarette.

"I'm not surprised. Why are you working for him?" Sherlock's face fell.

Irene grimaced, taking the cigarette between her teeth. "Knew you'd work it out eventually."

I looked around in confusion. "Sherlock? Can we trust her?"

He guffawed humourlessly. "Trust her? That's an opinion, John." After seeing my glances continue, he elaborated, "She works for Moriarty, John."

Irene nodded affirmative. "I get forty thousand pounds a month. I set it aside for my…well, that's personal. Anyway, all I have to do is give him information on my clients here." At my eyebrow raise, she laughed. "There, too, John. Don't look so embarrassed." My face was read and my head was pounding.

"Mmm," Sherlock grunted. I felt a headache coming on, but his sudden drowsiness concerned me. "The smoke…" he uttered. "It's drugged…"

Irene Adler's laugh was the last thing I heard before I drifted away in a drowsy, drug-induced rest.

I had a few choice glimpses of reality through my drugged state's disillusionment of everything. I heard hushed conversation and felt the road through the car, every jostling movement sending bile to my parched throat. Sharp sunlight stung my eyes, and the harsh brightness led me back to unconsciousness.

The next time I awoke, bars of weak sunlight filtered through a translucent window, covered in grime. Sherlock stood facing the window, looking outward.

"Oh, you wanted an adventure, Sherlock." I griped. "And isn't that what you've got now?" I pulled myself up and groaned with the effort, collapsing back into a pile.

"Don't move, John. The drug takes some time to wear off." He was at my side in an instant, making sure I lied down.

"W-Why wasn't Irene affected?"

"She must have built up a resistance." At my questioning gaze, he answered, "Dominatrix."

"So what do we do now?" I asked, trying to sound brave. Before Sherlock could reply, the door opened, and in stepped Irene.

Mouthing , "I'm sorry," she handed us apples. "Eat," she said aloud, before turning on her heel and exiting.

"See anything?" I asked after the door had shut.

"Only one guard," he murmured.

Suddenly the intercom crackled alive. "Hellooo," came the familiar but infuriatingly sarcastic and teasing tone. "Enjoying your stay, boys?" The grin could be heard from his voice. "The apples aren't poi-son, trust me. Even Seb had one, isn't that right?"

Crunching and a muffled "Mmph. Good," was the reply. I glanced over at Sherlock, but he was just sitting down and listening intently. "Any requests?" Sebastian asked. "We can accomidate."

Sherlock looked directly at the camera faceted on the wall. "I have a single request. I want both of you, and Irene, down here to have a civilized chat, like big boys." I noted his sarcasm.

Moriarty's voice once again echoed: "All right, big boy. We'll try-yy!"

I bit my lip as he walked closer. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"Trust, John," he said, laying a hand on my shoulder.

Not more than ten minutes later, the door opened, with first Sebastian, than Irene, and finally Moriarty, who theatrically closed the door behind him. Moran pulled a gun out Irene threw a wink at me.

"Soo…Sherly. What's new?" Moriarty shrugged.

"Not much. Been kidnapped. But why?" he wandered over to the other side of the trio, nearing Sebastian. I shifted closer to Moriarty slightly.

"Shit happens," giggled Moriarty.

"Vatican cameos!" Sherlock yelled, disarming Sebastian. At his cry, I jumped to the ground and brought Moriarty with me. I heard the sounds of fighting around me while I scuffled with Moriarty. A knife found its way into his hands, and before I knew what was happening, a sharp pain traveled its way up my thigh, and I screamed in pain. Irene kicked Moriarty away from me, and Sherlock pulled the gun taken from Sebastian on him.

At this, he sneered. "You can't kill me."

"Oh?" Sherlock retorted. "Would you like to try me? John, you all right?"

I grunted in reply weakly. Moriarty laughed. "You won't kill me. Because you'll just get bored again."

As soon as the Scotland Yard burst in, I allowed myself to pass out from pain.

"Mm? Whaa—" I tried to sit up, but Sherlock pushed me gently back down. "Whe—"

"No, John. You're home. I'm here." I blinked my bleary eyes and saw his face, concern in his blue eyes. "Just rest."

"I need to know what happened."

"Moriarty stabbed your leg. Irene called Lestrade's division and got away with the money from upstairs. We were in some sort of mannequin factory. We rushed you to the hospital. You'll be fine."

"Moriarty? He's dead?"

Sherlock's face hardened. "No. Lestrade's men brought both him and Sebastian Moran to the Yard, but they managed to escape."

I groaned. Sherlock made his way out into the hall and returned with my old cane. "You'll need this." I grunted my thanks and he exited my room.

Sherlock's mobile sighed seductively. It had been so long since it had made that noise, but…he read the text:

"Let's have dinner. Somewhere nice. Irene x"

Thank you for sticking with me through this one!


End file.
